“Holl’r Tree say, ‘Whut’s you done ter make fokes vote fur you? You doan give no fruit, an’ you too stingy ter eb’n stretch yer arms out an’ make shade fur ennybody.’
“Lombody say, ‘Yer doan want me ter spile m’ shape does yer?’
“Holl’r Tree say, ‘Dat’s hit. You thinks too much ’bout yer own se’f ter serve de woods.’ But I ain’ got time ter tell yer all whut de trees talks erbout. I jes’ wanter tell yer ’bout whut Mist’r bad ’Simmon Tree got.
“Whin he wus er lit’le boy tree, he all de time bein’ hard-haided an’ makin’ fusses twixt de trees er de beastes er enybody dat ’ud lis’n ter him. His ma whoop him er heap ’bout tellin’ tales, an’ meddlin’ in fokes’ ’fars, but ev’y time Bob Win’ come thu de woods ’Simmon Tree’d lean way down ter de groun’ totin’ tales ter sumbody. One time Mist’r Brindle Cow come walkin’ long thu de woods, huntin’ fur some nice lit’le chaws er wile flow’rs, an’ ’Simmon Tree hol’r fur him ter come set down an’ talk ter him. Mister Brindle say he ain’ got no time ter fool wid chillun. Wid dat ’Simmon Tree holl’r back: ‘Yer bet’r take time, ’caze ev’y body know you done bin runn’d out’n de pastur’.’ Whoopee! Mist’r Brindle Cow give er jump an’ lan’ hisse’f ’pon top er dat sassy little tree, an’ I tell yer he nuv’r lef’ dar tell he had tromp ’Simmon Tree clean down ter de groun’. Den he curl his tail in de air an’ go bellerin’ back ter de pastur’.
“’Simmon Tree sorter raise up one fing’r, den he lif’ his haid up er lit’le bit, but he hurt so bad near ’bout his foots dat he cry an’ beg sumbody ter please hope him up.
“Jes’ den Mist’r Man an’ his lit’le boy come ridin’ thu dar on Miss Race Hoss. Mist’r Man stop, he do, an’ say, ‘Look at dat nice lit’le ’Simmon Tree sumbody done tromp’d down. I’m gwine tie hit up an’ give hit er chanct,’ sez he. So him an’ de lit’le boy liftes hit up, an’ ’Simmon Tree holl’r, ‘Oh! Lawdy! yer’s killin’ me,’ but dey ties him up an’ put sticks up ’ginst him ter keep him fum fallin’ down, an’ ’tain’ long ’fo’ de hu’t part wus kur’d tergeth’r fine, an’, by de time he wus grow’d up, nobody cud tell he ev’r wus er bad lit’le boy dat mos’ got kilt by his badness. Oh, he wus er starchy lookin’ tree I tell yer. Look like he wus de fines’ lookin’ uv all de tree chillun.”
“One day Bob Win’ put on his fine linnin duster an’ he come er projeckin’ an’ frolickin’ ’roun’ de Reed gals down in de Cane Break. Dey has er heap er fun, I tell yer. Bob allus crackin’ his jokes ter ’em tell dey mos’ die fallin’ ’ginst one nuth’r laffin’.
“’Simmon Tree git so mad ’caze he can’t fly ’roun’ an’ projeck wid de gals like Bob, dat he ’fuse ter speak ter Bob’s howdy. Bob he sorter laf an’ flutt’r ’Simmon Tree’s leaves back’ards. ’Simmon Tree git mad es fire den, an’ he tell him ter ‘clar out!’
“He say, ‘You does er heap er braggin’ an’ blusterin’ in dese parts Bob Win’, but I ain’ nuv’r seed nuthin’ in yer but bad mann’rs.’
“Bob say, ‘I see yer done forgit de les’n Brer Brindle Cow learnt yer whin you wus lit’le.’